Sarah led him past the main elevator bank—where normies rode—to a private alcove at the far end of the lobby. A single elevator door, sleek and black, with a discreet keypad beside it.

"Your keycard accesses this elevator," she explained. "It's exclusively for residents of floors 98, 99, and 100."

Exclusive elevator for the exclusive people on the exclusive floors. Got it. Very exclusive.

Phei pressed his card to the pad. A soft chime, and the doors slid open like they'd been waiting for him specifically.

The elevator interior was all dark wood and tinted glass—one entire wall transparent, facing the outside world. A window to everything.

They stepped in. Sarah pressed 98.

The doors closed.

And Downtown Paradise began to fall away beneath them like it owed him money and was fleeing the debt.

Phei moved closer to the glass wall, watching the city shrink.

First the lobby, seen from above. The marble floors becoming a white smear. The chrome sneeze art looking even stupider from this angle.

Then the driveway. The manicured grounds. Palm trees shrinking to broccoli. The courtyard fountain becoming a shiny coin.

Higher.

The "modest" starter mansions came into view. Ten thousand square feet of architectural overcompensation, now looking like Monopoly houses scattered across a green felt board. Their infinity pools caught the dying light, glittering like the tears of people who couldn't afford to live here.

Those are the poor rich people. How tragic for them.

Higher still.

The real estates sprawled below him now. The neo-classical nightmare with columns that made Greek architects roll in their graves. The ultra-modern glass cube that looked like an iPhone had fucked a building. The aggressively Tuscan villa that was so Italian it probably played mandolin music through the walls.

All of them shrinking. Diminishing. Becoming less impressive with every floor he climbed.

Below me now. All of you.

Then the other towers.

The Celestine—fifty floors of "exclusive residences" that had seemed impressive thirty seconds ago—slid past his window. He was above it now. Looking down at its rooftop gardens like they were his personal scenery.

Below me.

The Apex came next. Sixty floors. That infamous rooftop pool where Legacy kids threw parties that ended in police reports. From up here, it looked like a puddle someone had forgotten to drain.

Below me.

The Obsidian. Seventy-five floors of black glass villain energy. Home to at least four people Phei had blackmail material on. He rose past its peak, past its crown, past everything it thought it was.

Below me.

And then...

Nothing.

Just sky. Just the first stars appearing as dusk surrendered to night. Just the endless sprawl of Paradise laid out beneath him like a map of everything he'd been told he didn't deserve.

From the room next to the laundry. The one Danton pissed in. To this.

Fucking hell.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Sarah said softly.

Phei didn't turn from the glass. His throat felt tight. His eyes were doing something suspicious that he was going to blame on the altitude.

"Yeah," he managed. "It really is."

The elevator chimed. Floor 98.

"Here we are," Sarah announced as the doors opened. "Your new home, Sir."

The private elevator opened directly into his unit.

Phei stepped out.

Stopped.

Forgot how to breathe.

What the actual fuck.

The space that stretched before him wasn't an apartment. Wasn't a flat. Wasn't a "condo" in any definition he'd previously understood.

It was a declaration of war against the concept of modesty.

The first floor unfurled like a private empire, the living room vast enough to host a discreet orgy or a quiet coronation—take your pick.

Floor-to-ceiling windows claimed two full walls, framing Downtown Paradise as a glittering backdrop, the city lights smearing like molten gold against the black velvet of night. The elevator ride had been mere foreplay; this was the main event.

The ceiling soared, twenty feet or more, a cathedral of excess where the second floor loomed above like a gilded balcony.

A sleek mezzanine overlooked the space, its railing a whisper of black glass and gold, hinting at hidden bedrooms and studies beyond. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the heights like frozen rain, casting fractured light across marble floors veined in obsidian and cream.

The furniture was curated with the cold precision of someone who never worried about cost. A sprawling sectional in soft beige leather curved around the room like an embrace, flanked by obsidian coffee tables veined in gold, low ottomans in black velvet, and sculptural chairs that looked too beautiful to sit in.

A grand piano gleamed on the upper level, silent sentinel to nights of indulgence.

In the heart of it all, the entertainment wall commanded attention. A massive curved ultra-wide television dominated the space—eighty-five (or more) inches of flawless black glass, the flagship model that whispered of unobtainable status.

Beneath it, a low console of polished marble housed the PlayStation 5 Pro, controllers aligned like obedient soldiers, games stacked in pristine shrink-wrap, waiting for violation.

Ambient lighting bathed the setup in soft gold, turning the corner into a private theater of escape.

This was no longer borrowed luxury. This was his. Every inch, every gleam, every silent promise of uninterrupted hours spent in the dark, controller in hand, no one to interrupt.

Phei stood at the center, breath shallow, the weight of it all settling like a crown he hadn't asked for but would wear anyway.

Phei actually said "what the fuck" out loud.

Sarah politely pretended not to hear.

And now it was his.

The kitchen was a cathedral of indulgence, sprawling across the open first floor like it had been designed to host feasts for gods who had forgotten humility.

High ceilings soared, coffered in dark wood and illuminated by recessed lighting that cast warm, golden pools across the space. A mezzanine balcony overlooked it all—glass railings offering glimpses of the upper floors—while black pendant lights hung like inverted obsidian teardrops above the central island.

The island itself was a monolith of polished black marble veined in gold, vast enough to seat a small council or serve as a stage for midnight indiscretions.

Flanking it, sleek counters in creamy quartz and dark stone wrapped the room, seamless and endless.

Backsplashes of intricate mosaic tile shimmered under warm under-cabinet lighting, the pattern subtle yet commanding.

Open shelves lined the walls in rich walnut, displaying crystal decanters, artisanal glassware, and bottles of liquor that caught the light like captured fire. A second sink, a wine fridge, and hidden storage drawers completed the illusion of effortless opulence.

The air smelled faintly of cedar and citrus—someone had already stocked it with fresh herbs and flowers in oversized vases. This was no kitchen for scraping by. This was a place to command, to create, to corrupt the senses.

I'm going to make so many sandwiches in there. Sandwiches at 2 AM. Sandwiches for breakfast. Sandwiches as a lifestyle. No one can stop me.

"Shall we see the second floor?" Sarah asked, probably sensing that he needed to move or he'd start crying in her workplace.

"Yeah. Yes. Let's do that."

The internal staircase was a spiral of glass and steel, floating in the corner like it had been designed by someone who thought stairs should make a statement.

Phei followed Sarah up, trying to keep his jaw from dragging on the very expensive treads.

The second floor was slightly smaller—relatively smaller, still massive by any normal human standard—and more divided into actual rooms.

"The study," Sarah said, stopping at an open doorway.

Phei looked inside.

Oh no.

Oh no, they gave me books.

One entire wall was bookshelves. Floor to ceiling. Real wood, real spines, real actual books—hundreds of them, maybe thousands, arranged in that aesthetic color-gradient way that interior designers loved.

But these weren't just decoration. He could see actual titles. Actual authors. Fantasy and science fiction and classics and philosophy and history and—

Did Melissa remember? Did she actually remember that I used to read before Harold decided reading hobbies were privileges I hadn't earned?

She must have. There was no other explanation for a wall of books in a teenager's condo unless someone had specifically requested it.

You manipulative, thoughtful, surprisingly-not-terrible woman.

The study was a sanctuary carved from shadow and ambition, tucked on the second floor but elevated above the city like a throne room overlooking conquered territory.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched along one entire wall, framing Downtown Paradise in a panoramic sweep—the glittering sprawl of lights below, the distant bay shrouded in mist, the mountains rising like silent witnesses.

The view was merciless in its beauty: no curtains, no compromise, just raw exposure to the world Phei had once been forced to watch from the outside.

The opposite wall was a different kind of dominance. A massive curved ultra-wide monitor dominated the space—forty-nine inches of seamless black glass, bent like a horizon, its surface reflecting the night sky in deep, liquid obsolescence.

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